


The Here and Hereafter

by daydreamn019



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Eye Gouging, M/M, Monster!Jon, Sad Ending, honestly i give jon a 0.0001percent chance of surviving s5 f, martin gets a little too stabby, pls let me know if i should tag anything else, post-ep160
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:20:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23132323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daydreamn019/pseuds/daydreamn019
Summary: “Martin,” Jon says quietly, smoothing the pad of his thumb against Martin’s palm. Martin looks up from his cracked lips and notices that the whites of his eyes are slowly reforming underneath the mess of flesh and scars, webbed with thin red veins. “We’re running out of time.”Martin grips the bone tighter with his other hand, trying not to shudder as rusted blood drips from its sharpened end, and doesn’t—can’tmove it even an inch closer to Jon’s chest. “I know.”(Monsters can't be kept alive. Martin knows this has been a long time coming, but it doesn't make it any easier.)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 20
Kudos: 157





	The Here and Hereafter

**Author's Note:**

> normally i'd be sad that a show i like wont have a happy ending but for tma s5? honestly im just...lowkey excited i love this podcast and i cant wait to see how it all plays out in the end 
> 
> in the meantime, have this....thing....whatever it is lol. the pacing is a little wonky and i didnt give much thought to the surrounding plot details but i just wanted to focus on this moment, where martin has to kill jon to save the world. in the future, i'd like to write some more horror-y stuff with tma, which should be interesting since ive never rlly written horror before :0

The Archivist is still screaming when Martin drops the knife.

Its voice is laced with rage, static rising so sharply that Martin can barely breathe. He tries to crawl away despite the oppressive weight of the air above him, his heart pounding in his ears but not loud enough to drown out the screams as it claws at its face, the deep lines gouged into its eyes dripping with blood. 

_ That isn’t Jon, _ Martin reminds himself, feeling sick to his stomach.  _ Not yet, not yet. Just wait. _

He inhales shakily and regrets it immediately, the sharp metallic smell making him want to vomit. Martin has seen more fresh corpses than he’d like to in the past few months, the world plunged into the domain of the Watcher, but none of them smelled this strong, this unnatural. Its blood _looks_ wrong, too, the color of old rust even as it flows freshly onto the ground.

The Archivist is shuddering and thrashing on the ground, only a few paces away, but Martin’s limbs are so heavy he physically can’t move any further. It’s still making those awful, guttural sounds—nothing like the distorted whisper that sounded  _ exactly _ like Jon moments before, as it widened its eyes and pleaded,  _ Martin, it’s me, don’t hurt me,  _ and Martin had to—he had to—

Maybe he does throw up, or he’s just crying so hard it dismantles something in his chest. The world seems to be spinning around him as it tilts back and forth. He all but collapses onto the floor, trying not to look at the Archivist’s writhing body as blood pours down from its eyes.

Helen’s door is still there next to him, a cheerful yellow color that contrasts with the scratched metal walls of the abandoned warehouse. She had helped him find the Archivist quite willingly, though made it clear with the delightful glee in her voice that she was sure he wasn’t going to make it back alive. Something about him being too weak, too attached to the human parts of the Archivist that didn’t quite exist anymore, too slow to get the job done.

Martin tries not to think about how she might be laughing on the other side.

He squeezes his eyes shut, adrenaline still sickening inside his veins. It’s hard to focus on anything other than his harsh breathing, ragged and panicky despite the putrid smell around him. The Archivist’s screams are hoarse, like it’s running out of air, shifting from anger to something rawer, more painful. If Martin didn’t know any better, he almost would’ve thought it was fear.

The Archivist lurches, twisting in a way not quite human, hands pressing against its eyes but its whole body wracked with convulsions. Martin flinches, scrambling to get further away. His hand closes around something on the ground, and he looks to see what it is. Bile rises in his throat.

It’s the bone, a curved rib that’s sharpened at one end to a deadly knifepoint and wrapped in spiderwebs at the other. Now it’s covered in the Archivist’s blood, vile rust dripping from the off-white surface, and Martin wants to throw up again.

Annabelle Cane had given it to him a week ago, laughing when he shrieked and dropped it in the realization that it was Jon’s, from the time he climbed into the Buried’s coffin all those months ago. All eight of her eyes stared at him as he fumbled with the knife and asked her what the  _ hell _ she wanted, and he still can’t shake the feeling that he saw amusement in them. 

Her words, rasping oddly like they weren't quite coming from her throat, still echo in his head:

“You have a choice to make, Martin Blackwood. I suggest you do so while it’s still your own.” 

Martin’s fingers curl tighter around the bone, despite the nauseating feeling in his gut, and he hauls himself away, crawling across the floor. His arms are sore from using the knife, holding the Archivist down as it convulsed beneath him. He’s pretty sure his clothes are flecked with that rotten blood, but he doesn’t think he can stomach a confirmation. 

This is stupid.  _ Stupid. _ Martin shouldn’t be here. He should’ve just shoved the knife back at Annabelle Cane and told her to piss off, or avoided the yellow door standing wildly out of place in the wreckage of the safehouse. Or he should’ve waited for Basira to come back—he noticed the look in her eyes the last time he saw her, when he asked about Daisy and her hand drifted to the gun at her waist, blood still under her fingernails. Maybe he could’ve been selfish and asked her to do it instead.

He’s still shaking, his heart in his throat, and it’s not even the hardest part yet. 

Martin’s head is pounding so loudly it takes a moment for him to realize that it’s quiet, save for the ever-constant white noise of distant screams and howling wind. The air is lighter, the pressure that he’s grown accustomed to gone.

He tastes something like ashes in his mouth. He forces himself to look at the Archivist.

It lies still and eerily quiet on its side; Martin would’ve thought it was dead if not for the subtle rise and fall of its chest. Blood drips down from the marred skin where its eyes used to be, staining the ground under it. Its telltale static is gone, too, leaving the air open and empty. 

Then it shifts, barely perceptible but enough to make Martin tense, gripping the knife. The smallest motion of the arm, then the silent mouthing of the lips—slow and almost painful, not the jerky, unnatural movements of the Archivist. A hand comes up and touches the gashes, before steadily falling back to the ground. 

Martin sucks in a breath, despite himself, and seems to hold it for an eternity as the figure in front of him shivers, then murmurs with some strain, “M-Martin?” 

The voice is hoarse, but Martin nearly collapses with relief from the sound—he recognizes it instantly from the rasping screams and distorted coldness of the Archivist. He’d know that voice from anywhere,  _ his _ Jon, free from the Eye. The Jon that disappeared as the Ceaseless Watcher consumed the world.

“Jon,” Martin gasps, almost a sob. He scrambles closer, one hand still gripping the knife as he half-crawls towards him.  _ “Jon, _ I’m so sorry, I didn’t—I didn’t want—”

“No,” Jon says, and tilts his head in his directions. The deep lines gouged into his eyes still make Martin want to throw up, so he focuses on his lips instead. “No, that was...that was smart.” Jon laughs weakly, then doubles over and begins to cough, blood spilling from his mouth.

Martin is immediately at his side, fumbling for a water bottle and some bandages. He carefully wraps Jon’s eyes with the cloth. The bloodstains that seep through are dull and brownish, as if they were days old, but Martin ignores them as he binds the wounds and helps Jon up into a sitting position, lifting the bottle to his lips. His hands are still quivering, and most of the water spills down Jon’s shirt, but it does seem to help him. For Martin, feeling Jon’s warmth as he keeps a steady hand on his shoulder can almost dissipate all the terrified numbness that’s collected in his gut.

There are so many words Martin wants to say, but so little time to say them. He swallows. “I’m still sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Jon says. His hand, the one covered in burn marks, reaches up to touch Martin’s on his shoulder, fingers brushing gently against his skin. “I…I missed you, Martin.”

Martin’s eyes sting, this time with tears more welcome. He squeezes Jon’s hand gently. “I missed you, too.”

Jon smiles, the smallest quirk of his lips that ignites a glimmer of warmth in Martin’s chest. It almost leaves him breathless—he’s forgotten what it feels like, to not be utterly alone in this world ruled by fear. 

“It’s good to see you,” Jon says, then snorts softly. “Well, not  _ see. _ If I could...” His smile fades, slightly. “If I could still see you, this reunion wouldn’t be going so well.”

The hope Martin’s allowed to build inside him disperses. “R-right.” The bone knife feels suddenly heavy in his other hand, like it’s reminding him of its presence, and guilt curls in his stomach.

“How did you find me?” Jon asks after a moment, gentler. 

“...Annabelle Cane,” Martin reluctantly responds, and tries not to wince as Jon stiffens. “She gave me your—” Martin cuts himself off. “S-something. To trace you. And Helen gave me a door.” 

Jon frowns. “You can’t trust them.”

“I  _ know, _ ” Martin says, sharper than he means it to be. “But I had no other choice. And I think they...they want to stop the Eye, too.” Maybe at much lesser stakes, but still—Martin has a feeling that they don’t want the Watcher to keep all that power, and part of stopping that is…

Martin unconsciously grips the knife tighter, then lets it go with a start. It clatters on the ground. Jon flinches from the sound, tensing like he’s ready to run, and Martin hastily grabs his wrist. “It’s fine! It’s fine, I just...dropped something.”

Jon relaxes almost immediately. Martin tentatively picks up the knife again, then intertwines their fingers. Jon’s brows are still furrowed, though, and his voice is low as he asks, “They didn’t hurt you, did they?”

Martin shakes his head, then realizes that Jon can’t see him. “I’m fine.”

“Is Basira with you?”

“She left to check up on Melanie and Georgie,” Martin says. “They’re okay, by the way. Trying to stay away from this. I’ve been alone for weeks.”

Jon exhales. “And you’ve been alright?”

Martin still can’t quite put his full weight on his left ankle, but Jon doesn’t need to know that. “Yeah.”

Jon swallows, lips moving soundlessly for a few seconds before he asks, subdued, “What about Daisy?”

Martin freezes. Jon’s voice is shaky, like he already has an inkling of what happened. Or maybe he already knows, and he’s asking for confirmation that he doesn’t want.

“She…” Martin forces the words from his mouth. “She’s dead.”

Jon makes a soft, pained noise. His shoulders sag. “Oh.”

The silence that follows is stifling. Martin feels his heart spasm in his chest, and, haltingly, the rest of the words push out of his throat. “Daisy returned to the Hunt. She...made Basira promise. To kill her.” 

“Oh,” Jon repeats dully. He lets go of Martin, dropping his hand in his lap. “I…” He takes a deep, trembling breath. “I’m not surprised. It’s hard to resist t-the Entities. Especially now…” Jon hisses softly, reaching up to gently touch the bandages. 

Immediately Martin feels worry spark in his chest. “Does it hurt?”

Jon shakes his head. “No, no, it’s…” He trails off, head tilting to the ceiling. There’s a small, oval window high up on the wall, the red-tinged sky barely visible through the dirty glass. “Can you take it off?”

There’s a forced neutrality in his voice, tightened over pain and grief. Martin takes a deep breath, carefully pushing down his own feelings. “S-sure.”

He reaches for Jon’s face and tentatively peels off the bandages, trying not to shudder at the blood. He turns around to grab some clean bandages from his backpack, holding the knife close to his chest. 

“Martin,” Jon says, a note of alarm in his voice, and Martin spins back around. His heart plummets.

The blood has dried, though the only difference from before is that it isn’t flowing anymore. The wounds are already closing up, leaving behind thick scars—which would be ideal if not for the fact that the blemishes are disappearing slowly already, mending into untouched skin as the lines move on their own in a hypnotizing pattern. Jon’s hand is cupping the left side of his face, lips curled into a grimace as if he’s trying to resist the healing. 

Martin swallows, horror rising in his gut. He knew that this wouldn’t be permanent, that Jon was in too deep for this to be a fix-all solution. He knew it even before Annabelle Cane handed him the bone. But even then, he thought they’d have more time together—days, even weeks. Not  _ minutes, _ before the Archivist comes back, and Martin loses Jon forever. 

“Jon,” Martin says, terrified. He grips the knife tighter despite the awful feeling inside him, despite the way the hard bone, sticky with cobwebs, digs into his palm. “How long—”

“Not very,” Jon says. “I mean, you could stab me again but it’ll—it’ll just heal faster. It’s not really any use.” His hand falls from his face, and he’s quiet for a moment. “Martin?”

Martin bites his lip. “Y-yeah?”

Jon reaches out. Martin takes his hand and rests their intertwined fingers gently on his leg. “Why are you here?”

Martin shudders and almost says,  _ To see you _ , the words leaping to his throat without hesitation. It’s what he repeated to himself as he gripped the bone in his hand, standing in front of the Distortion’s door and taking deep breaths to calm the panic inside him.  _ Just to see you. To save you. We’ll find a way to kill Jonah Magnus, to defeat the Eye, to separate you from the Archivist. I promise. _

But he can’t lie, not in a moment like this, not when grief and guilt and loneliness are building up inside him and he wants to scream at the unfairness of it, as the world watches and laughs. 

“I’m sorry,” Martin says instead, his voice wavering, and Jon doesn’t need the Eye’s powers to know. 

There’s a beat of silence, where Martin can’t bring himself to look up at his face. Then Jon sighs. He squeezes Martin’s hand, tracing circular patterns on the skin with his thumb. 

“It’s for the best,” he says, and the resignation in his voice punches Martin in the gut. “There’s no other way. I’m...I’m not gonna last. As long as I’m alive, the Archivist will—”

Martin squeezes his eyes shut and chokes out,  _ “Don’t.” _

A pause. Martin feels Jon loosen his grip on his hand. “Don’t what?” 

“I  _ know _ I have to do this,” Martin bites back. He pulls his hand away to fiercely scrub at his eyes, trying to push back the tears threatening to flow. “I-I  _ know _ it’s for the greater good, or whatever. So d-don’t try to make me feel better about it. I don’t  _ want _ to feel better about it.”

A longer silence follows. Martin doesn’t open his eyes, allowing himself greedy seconds to breathe and clutch the knife and feel like the worst person in the world. 

“I’m sorry,” Jon says after a moment that seems to last hours, so softly it almost makes the tears come back full force. “I don’t envy you. I...I know this can’t be easy.”

Martin laughs wetly and doesn’t feel genuine one bit, his insides cracked and shaking. He opens his eyes to see Jon grimacing. “Understatement of the year, Jon.”

“...I suppose.” Jon shifts slightly and tilts his head up, though Martin doesn’t miss how his body trembles. “You have a weapon?”

Martin flinches at the directness of it. “Y-yeah.” He glances at the knife in his hands. “Annabelle Cane gave me...your rib. Sharpened it and everything.” It still feels nauseating to think about, as every precious second ticks by. 

“Oh, lord,” Jon mutters, his hand drifting to his chest. “Does...” He hesitates for a brief moment. “Do the others know? That you’re doing this?”

“No,” Martin says, and guilt sparks inside him at the admission. He ducks his head. “By the time Annabelle approached me, Basira had been gone for a week and I couldn’t get in touch with anyone. Then I found Helen, and…”

Martin’s voice tapers off, a lump forming in his throat. He isn’t strong enough to do this. What was he  _ thinking? _ Talk to Jon for the first time in months, knowing he can’t be saved, and then plunge a knife into his chest to kill something that  _ isn’t _ Jon now but will be if Martin doesn’t act fast enough? Before the world was ravaged by the apocalypse, Martin couldn’t imagine hurting a person. Even during it, he hasn’t killed anyone, aside from one Avatar of the Corruption that looked so revolting it was barely human. But Jon, in front of him, is human  _ now, _ even if he won’t be for long, and Martin can’t bring himself to—

“Thank you,” Jon says, cutting through his thoughts, and Martin freezes. “Thank you, Martin. I’m...glad that it’s you, at least. I’m glad I’m with you.”

Martin inhales, eyes stinging.  _ Don’t, _ he wants to say again, but there’s something about Jon’s tone, the way his body relaxes slightly as Martin touches his shoulder, that makes the plea catch in his throat.

“Jon…” Martin whispers, suddenly drained. Jon sighs, then winces, his head lolling to the side as his features tighten briefly with pain. Almost instinctively, Martin reaches up to cup his cheek, brushing against the circular scars on his skin. Jon covers his hand with his, fingers curling gently.

Helen was right. Martin’s too human to kill Jon, too selfish to say it’s to save the world. His heart is fragmenting inside his chest and he still wears it on his sleeve, even with the knife in his hand and Jon’s eyes marred from the sharpened edges of it. 

But Elias— _ Jonah Magnus _ was right as well. Martin would do anything that Jon asked him to. 

“Martin,” Jon says quietly, smoothing the pad of his thumb against Martin’s palm. Martin looks up from his cracked lips and notices that the whites of his eyes are slowly reforming underneath the mess of flesh and scars, webbed with thin red veins. “We’re running out of time.”

Martin grips the bone tighter with his other hand, trying not to shudder as rusted blood drips from its sharpened end, and doesn’t— _ can’t _ move it even an inch closer to Jon’s chest. “I know.”

He doesn’t want to do this. Everything in him  _ screams _ at the wrongness of it. Jon is finally here after so many months, separated from the Archivist only in this brief moment. Martin has a knife in his hand and he can’t even kill the Archivist with it. He has to do it when it’s  _ Jon. _

“Martin,” Jon says again. He swallows, and Martin watches his Adam’s apple bob. “Tell...tell Georgie that I’m sorry, for what it’s worth. Melanie a-and Basira, too. I know they’ll get through this. You all will.” 

It’s so final it  _ hurts. _ Martin can’t even keep his voice level anymore as it cracks around the edges. “I-I’ll tell them.” He pauses, his heart squeezing in his chest. “They don’t hate you, Jon. Th-they never—they didn’t hate  _ you.  _ Georgie...she…” Martin takes a deep breath. “She was mad, after you woke up from the coma, but then the world ended and s-she realized you had no choice. She doesn’t hate you. She always wanted to tell you but now it’s—”

“Too late,” Jon finishes, but his shoulders are more relaxed, like a weight’s been lifted. “T-thank you, Martin. I didn’t—I don’t deserve—”

“No,” Martin cuts in. “No, Jonathan Sims. You’re not—you’re not going to die with that attitude.” Jon snorts softly, the sound alleviating a bit of the pressure on Martin’s chest. “You  _ do _ deserve us. You talk about how the Unknowing changed you, but…” Martin takes a deep breath to collect his thoughts. “You’re not  _ it.  _ You helped Daisy. You...you saved me. And…” Martin bites his lips, his vision blurring with tears. “I’m going to miss you. I…”

Jon is quiet, for a moment. He wraps his hand around Martin’s and slowly brings it down to his lap. The skin around his eyes is almost completely healed now, working in spiral patterns to his pupils as the flesh neatly knits itself whole. The whites of his eyes are bloodshot, like he hasn’t slept for days.

“I’ll miss you, too,” Jon finally says. “From...” He laughs weakly. “...beyond the grave, I suppose. M-maybe I’ll see Daisy. Sasha, too, the real one, and—god, Tim is going to punch me, isn’t he.”

Martin sucks in a breath and tries not to notice how his heart splinters in his chest. He manages to crack a smile. “Probably.” 

“Just something to look forward to,” Jon says, then hisses, shuddering as he pitches forward. He bows his head and gasps in pain, drawing his knees up to his chest. “Shit—”

“What’s wrong?” Martin asks, worry lancing through him. He places a steady hand on Jon’s shoulder, bending down and trying to see his face. “Jon?  _ Jon?” _

For a terrifying moment, it seems like Jon is gone again, and the Archivist back—Martin was too late, too weak, and he  _ failed, _ like Helen said he would. The Eye is watching and there’s a monster in front of him and Martin’s going to die if he doesn’t get out fast enough—

Jon wheezes, unfolding, and lifts up his head. The scars are healing faster now, one of his half-formed eyelids fluttering alarmingly. Each noise of pain he makes drives directly into Martin’s skull, like a thousand little needles. 

“Martin,” he says through gritted teeth. “I—I don’t know if I-I—you have to do it  _ now.”  _

Martin’s heart is in his throat. He clutches the knife, nearly forgotten, and almost sobs. The weight of it is so heavy, nauseating as the reality of the situation settles on him like the pressure at the bottom of the ocean. 

“I—” Martin sniffles. Nothing he can say seems  _ enough. _ “Jon—I’m….I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Jon shakes his head. “N-no.” His voice cracks slightly, and he sounds scared, though he’s trying to hide it. “Don’t apologize. Don’t…” He trails off, hands curling into fists at his side.

Martin doesn’t know if he can get any more words out without bursting into tears. So he leans in slowly, unsteadily, and almost in a trance, the feeling so natural it resonates painfully in his chest. It doesn’t take much conscious thought to close the distance between them and lightly brush his lips against his, so soft and fragile that the contact nearly makes him break. Jon’s lips part slightly, as if in surprise, and his hand comes up to sink gently into Martin’s hair. His other hand comes to rest on Martin’s—the one wrapped around the knife.

They stay like that for what seems like an eternity and yet still too short, so close that Martin can feel every breath on his skin. Jon combs through his hair with his fingers, intimate despite his tremors, and rests his hand on Martin’s cheek. 

“Martin,” Jon whispers, brittle, the words brushing against his lips. “W-what do you see?”

Martin inhales and draws back, despite every cell in his body screaming not to. Jon’s hand, still on top of his on the handle of the knife, slowly begins to lift into the air. Martin’s arm is shaking so badly he would’ve let go if it weren’t for him.

_ I don’t know what you mean, _ he almost says, but his eyes sting and he  _ does _ know. Drifting in the Lonely, lost and fading until Jon pulled him back and saved him and demanded him to look at him,  _ look _ at him and tell him what he saw—

Martin blinks the tears out of his eyes and covers the hand Jon has on his face with his own, bringing it down towards the ground. He squeezes it as reassuringly as he can despite the fissure that grows in his chest. “Y-you, Jon. Just you.” 

Jon shudders and lets out a breath. His hand falls, leaving Martin’s hovering in the air alone with the knife. His whole body sags with something akin to relief, and he tilts his head up, facing the sky through the tiny window above them. Martin looks, too, and wonders if the night had gotten darken since he last glanced at it.

“I…” Jon makes a noise that’s halfway between a laugh and a sob. “Thank you, Martin. For seeing me.” He slides their fingers together, holding his hand like a lifeline even as Martin’s other one holds the knife above him.

Martin looks back at him—his Jon, for the final time—and feels something crack inside him, raw and terrified. He doesn’t stop the tears from flowing this time.

The wounds are fading rapidly, and Martin sees the Archivist’s bloodied eyes flicker and tremble under the healing scabs. But he still, selfishly, takes a moment to catalog Jon’s features, committing them to memory: his messy white-streaked hair and perpetually-chapped lips, the circular worm scars on his cheeks. His hand is warm, soft to the touch and human, even if he’s only here for the next few seconds.

Martin closes his eyes and tucks the image away, safe and treasured in the back of his mind. He exhales slowly, listening to Jon’s even breathing as he steels himself and the final moment dissipates. 

Jon squeezes his hand one final time.

Martin squeezes back and lets the knife fall.

**Author's Note:**

> @daydreamno019 on tumblr


End file.
